"Hurt me."
It wasn't something that needed to be stated twice. Whatever she asked for he would give it to her, no matter the cost in the morning.
She didn't trust him enough to let him tie her up; she'd told him that on numerous occasions. And she wouldn't let him bite her. She'd sway her head gently this way and that as they made love, exposing her neck to him in a manner so seductive he could almost feel his fangs sinking down into the warm flesh; but she'd never let him bite her and he knew it, and so he didn't.
He had her pinned now, she was against the wall and his hands were roaming fiercely over her body taking in every delicate curve with a roughness that couldn't be matched by any mortal man. She would have bruises in the morning.
It was what she wanted; she wanted to hurt, to feel. It was what she asked for and he gave it to her, gave her everything, because he loved her.
They would never be the type for candlelight and roses, dinner and a movie, or a picnic at the beach. They would never hold hands as they strolled down the sidewalk licking an ice cream cone and humming some old show tune, it wasn't what they were made of. They were made of darkness and ashes, moonlight and blood. They were made of the hunt and the kill, fire and passion.
They collapsed in a frantic heap to the cold floor of the crypt. He hitched her leg around his waist and pinned her down by the shoulders bringing them closer together and all at once further apart. She was pleading with him for more, pleas she would hate herself for tomorrow, pleas she would blame him for when daylight came. But for now she begged 'hurt me,' for now she couldn't help herself, for now she loved him, and always he loved her, and he had to oblige.